I'm taking the sons down south to the Lodge in the lovely Uinta Mountains for a few days.

We had quite an uproar last night involving a supposed burglary and a helpful policeman who kindly went down the basement with a gun drawn to smoke out any lurking intruders. Then my oldest son "remembered" that the thing I thought had been stolen had really been "lent" to his friend that afternoon. As a result, that oldest son will have a few telephoneless days to think about things. :| Such fun being a mother.

Well, yeah, I can bring a guitar with me. I can't play, but I can bring it, I guess. And it's really my wife's guitar. Eiseley plays piano; if she's going to Getaway...well, she has a concert grand. I'm thinking about leaving my instrument at home and just bringing my angelic voice.

Decubitus: Lying down. A decubitus ulcer is a bed sore, the consequence of lying in one position too long. The Latin "decubitus" (meaning lying down) is related to "cubitum" (the elbow) reflecting the fact the Romans habitually rested on their elbows when they reclined.

The NEW doors are being hand-made in a beautifully turned out garage in City HEights by a wonderful craftsmen. Mebbe two weeks. Then the PAINTER comes. Then the CARPETS come. Then we spend two years repairing the fiscal drainage.

Wolfe schlegelstein hausenberger dorff, Senior was born in Bergedorf, Germany (near Hamburg), and later emigrated to the United States, settling in Philadelphia. His birthdate has been given as February 29, 1904, but he was also reported to be age 47 in a mid-1964 wire story. He became a typesetter, "logically enough", according to Bennett Cerf.[3] He was a member of the American Name Society for a while.[4]

His name first attracted attention when it appeared in the 1938 Philadelphia telephone directory on page 1292, column 3, line 17,[5] and in a court order of Judge John Boyle of May 25, 1938: "Wolfe schlegel stein hausen berger dorf, Jr., [sic] etc., vs. Yellow Cab Co., petition for compromise settlement granted"Ñwith speculation that the case was settled because "they couldn't pronounce it".[6]

A son, Hubert Blaine Wolfe schlegel stein hausen berger dorff, Jr., was born in Philadelphia in 1952, and was able to pronounce his surname by age three.[7] Family letterhead used the form "Hubert Blaine Wolfe schlegel stein hausen berger-dorff".[8]

When Inquirer journalist Frank Brookhouser omitted the letter "u" in reporting a 1952 Philadelphia voter registration under the 35-letter surname, Wolfe schlegel stein hausen berger dorff's prompt correction was carried by Time[9] and passed on to other outlets.[10] Philadelphia's business computers used an abbreviated form on the city's voting registration books; the utility company, however, when told he wouldn't pay his bill unless his name was right, began spelling it properly, on three lines.[11] Brookhouser later responded by tributing the correctly spelled Wolfe schlegel stein hausen berger dorff as the exemplar Philadelphian named in the first sentence of his Our Philadelphia, comparing him to another local typesetter, Benjamin Franklin.[12]

Mom!! Mom!! Rapaire has RUN AWAY!! I saw him from the schoolbus!! He was walking down Main toward the freeway on-ramp with a bindlestick over his shoulder and he had that old Army coat on he got from the Salvation Army store in the Seventies so he could impress Cynthis Twinkmeister from his home room. I think he was going to try and hitchhike to Chicago or something!!

Mr. Rapaire will soon be on his way to Ennis, MT via Virginia City, MT. He is the only person in the area who knows how to tie a noose correctly, and so has been asked by folks up here in Vigilante Country to help them out, as they have run out of pre-tied nooses. This, of course, is very bad for the tourist trade as it only leaves fishing, hiking, camping, music, YNP, and stuff like that. The Vigilantes were at loose ends until they asked him up to help out.

That's not what she says when you're out of the house and she sits in front of her mirror counting her gray hairs, Rapaire. Sure she said, "Go, go, if you must...". But you gotta understand, that's her outside voice. Her inside voice is sighing with relief at the prospect of a break from all the stress you cause her.

Rapaire, you run these things past MOM when she's had a couple of beers after dinner and is sound asleep in front of the television! That DOESN'T count! "Phhhtttttttt!" That's what MOM said when I asked her about it.

Alas, the number slowly grow, Our playmates all have wandered! We do not know just where they go, Or how their days are squandered. But we strong few, we noble few Cannot spare time for guessing, For we must rally to our Mom, And carry on B.S.ing!

No, my fair cousin Amos; If we are mark'd to die, we are enow To do our country loss; and if to live, The fewer men, the greater share of honour. God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more. By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost; It yearns me not if men my garments wear; Such outward things dwell not in my desires. But if it be a sin to covet BS honour, I am the most offending soul alive. No, faith, my coz, wish not a soul from anywhere. God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour As one man more methinks would share from me For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more! Rather proclaim it, Amos, through my host, That he which hath no stomach to this fight, Let him depart; his passport shall be made, And crowns for convoy put into his purse; We would not post in that one's company That fears his fellowship to die with us. This day is call'd the feast of Crispian. He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd, And rouse him- or her- self at the name of Crispian. He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian.' Then will he strip his/her sleeve and show his/her scars, And say 'These wounds I had on Crispian's day.' Old (wo)men forget; yet all shall be forgot, But s/he'll remember, with advantages, What feats s/he did that day. Then shall our names, Familiar in his/her mouth as household words- Rapaire the King, Stilly River Sage and Eiseley, Amos and Khandu, Bee-Dubya-Ell and all- Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red. This story shall the good (wo)man teach her/his son; And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered- We few, we happy few, we band of brothers and sisters; For s/he to-day that sheds her/his posts with me Shall be my sibling; be s/he ne'er so vile, This day shall gentle his or her condition; And those everywhere now-a-bed Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here, And hold their (wo)manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That wrote with us upon Saint Crispin's day. --Adapted from Wm. Shakespeare

Such an attribution I have so rarely seen, As to make me swear the moon has risen at the dawn And driven off the sun! What day, what hour, Can it be that such a hapening is writ Upon the very face of backwards Time! My beating heart be still, and let me breathe The faire odor of a miracle upon the lande That Rapaire has named his work another's hand!

Home again! I took two lovely morning hikes at the Lodge, sent my brother out to glean stinging nettle for the quesadillas, held crying nieces and nephews until they settled, and generally had a relaxing time. My boys brought their air guns and had a great time shootin' with the uncles. Deadeye Will at 9 years old was the best shot.

Mix up one of your concoctions and we need to blow up a skunk den. I'm sure there must be one behind my back fence, and unfortunately, my dogs are knocking off the inhabitants at the rate of one a week. One dog missed getting sprayed (the smarter pit bull, who got a glancing blow last week and that was enough for her). The catahoula got a full strength shot before she killed it. I'd just as soon have the rest of the family move along without coming for a visit.

MOM thought it was pretty funny, but this is a waste of a perfectly good Saturday night.

A valid question, semantically interesting, and culturally compelling, Gnu. Preliminary research indicates this interesting option never did occur in the legendary Ryder's various fictional constructions, but there is a mystery left untouched herein, because the connection is so obvious, and so timely. The cultural expression of Red Rover was at its peak of popular usage at exactly the same period that the iconic Ryder reached his, and it is hard to accept the explanation that his writers ignored the opportunity for such a deep-seated cultural linkage merely out of tin-ear dull-wittedness. Another explanation should be sought, and if possible, found. I am preparing a draft seeking funding to support the necessary research to identify this mechanism, to bravely uncover this secret from our cultural past, and expose it to the world. I am not afraid of conspiracies, fiscal manipulations, or suppression of the truth; I will find the answers, or die rich from not trying.

Who can forget the halcyon days of childhood, when life's cares were so few, and a long afternoon calling "Red Rover, Red Rover, let Bessie come over!" was the epitome of time well spent, and the world was full of adults who took care of everything else.

At the same time, what boy dd not yearn for the Red Ryder model Daisy BB gun?

The collision of these iconic --or at least, idiomatic--trends at their crests never occurred, and this absence of intersection, as I said before, is almost unbelievable absent some sort of artifice or manipulation. We must get to the bottom of this mystery, if we are to preserve the integrity of our legends; else we must dash them on the cruel stones of jaded cynicism and venality as the sole explanation. And who would want to do that?

The other morning I was out walking in the hills with a friend and her dog when another lady came up and kindly told us the recipe for getting skunk scent off of a dog: 1 part Dawn dishwashing liquid, 1 part baking soda, and 1 part hydrogen peroxide. Then she left. Not two days later, that recipe came in very handy and it worked very well except that it's important to make sure not to get the mixture on the dog's face. Gracie was a bit pungent, but not so's you'd notice much. It was just reminiscent of a pile of very old sweaty socks---nothing like the full strength skunk scent.

I amn so bold, so brave so bright You seldom ever see; I man who always knows he's right A better one nor me. A man who'd pull most any stunt And out-glare any ghost If he could only be the one To grab the hundredth post. I sigh for him the long night through, And he worries me by day, Because I know the important thing Is to reach the ext of Kay! The Thirty-Seventh stands ahead, I can hear its whispers golden, Upon the wind like a siren song That lured the sailors olden. I will slog on, I will not flinch Nor rest nor night nor day Until I plant Mom's hallowed sign On the Thirty Seven Kay. Let he whose heart is bad deformed Let he whose souls is bent Call out his pride at the hundred marks, Then let him brag, and vent. Let him pound his chest and shout his pride, And say his vainglorious say. While in the silent night we ride To the Thirty Seven Kay.

Ah, in case you didn't know it, Eiseley ain't a "he", Amos. She's got three sons to prove it, too. Their names are Dead-Eye, Fish-Eye, and Walleye. They are named after (in reverse order) her favorite fish, her favorite camera lens, and the fact that DE can shoot a BB through the eye of a needle if the eye of the needle is big enough.

Please forgive the typos in ly last bit of poesy, and I'll forgive your obstreperous and intentional alteration.

Deal?

The opening lines were:

A man so bold, so brave so bright You seldom ever see; A man who always knows he's right A better one nor me. A man who'd pull most any stunt And out-glare any ghost If he could only be the one To grab the hundredth post.

Now Rapaire, given that it was your OWN self whut went to extra efforts to grab the last hundred (36800, with YOUR name on it) why would you go and tangle it all up with mixing in the repute of a fair and innocent lady like Ms Eiseley?? Huh??? Fer shame!!

I've used that formula before. IF you use it, you need to smear it on and rub it into the end of the dog (front, typically) that got hit before you get any water on, so the soap can really cut the smell. I've been using Nature's Miracle and it's doing a pretty good job. Poppy got hit hard this time, and she still smells, but not nearly so bad. I haven't done a bath yet, the idea is to let the enzyme completely clobber the smell first. I've spritzed her quite a few times today, and will give her another shot before bed. I put the stuff in my squirt bottle I usually use on my plants. ;)